


Chained

by daisydiversions



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Handcuffs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-21
Updated: 2008-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 02:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisydiversions/pseuds/daisydiversions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things you never forget and some you should have never let go in the first place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chained

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Reddwarfer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reddwarfer/gifts).



When Tezuka returned to his dorm room to find Fuji smiling benignly up at him from where he was handcuffed to Tezuka's bed, Tezuka promptly turned around, walked back into the hallway, and closed the door behind him.

It took several seconds of staring at the wood frame before he was able to rally himself enough to try that again. Fuji was still there, oceans away from where he ought to be, and Tezuka was forced to acknowledge this was probably not a very lucid continuation of this last night's dream.

"Fuji," he nodded.

"Tezuka," Fuji said with no little degree of amusement.

Sitting down in the middle of the bed, he gave Fuji a prompting look that was returned with a fond smile and a stretch that arched the long line of Fuji's torso in a tempting swish that ended with a pale strip of skin just above the waistband of Fuji's trousers. The reality of Fuji settled contently against the same sheets Tezuka had been laying in only hours ago, erection pushing against the mattress while his brain supplied inappropriate images of this same man, stirred something between carelessness and anticipation in Tezuka, and he thought better of the proximity and moved to the foot of the bed.

The flash of triumph in Fuji's eyes was unmistakable.

This did nothing to improve his state below the belt.

"What are you doing here, Fuji?" Tezuka finally managed.

Fuji tilted his head to the side as if he couldn't recall when he was really just deliberating on whether Tezuka's knowing would make the situation more or less interesting for Fuji. "Yuuta seems to think I need to get out more," he said carefully.

"To Germany," Tezuka commented wryly.

"Apparently," Fuji laughed.

Fuji seemed as determined as ever to play games and Tezuka would never own that the frustration was nostalgic in an entirely welcome way. Everyone had been so easy and accommodating here, and it seemed years since he'd dealt with anyone as willfully difficult and overwhelmingly desirable as Fuji.

Instead, he decided to concentrate on not being half hard while Fuji was in touching distance and chained to his bed.

He was not overly successful.

Ever the antagonist of Tezuka's composure, Fuji swung his leg around and deposited one socked foot into Tezuka's lap. And rubbed.

Tezuka clamped his teeth around a sharp hiss and made to bat Fuji away, but his hand couldn't be made to move from the curve of Fuji's ankle bone, and it was all he could do not to shut his eyes and groan. He was on top of Fuji before his sense of reason could catch up with him and Fuji's legs came around his until they were locked together in all ways familiar and so impossible to forget no matter how many times Tezuka had tried.

"You stopped writing," Fuji accused against his jaw, biting a path towards Tezuka's throat. 

"You stopped making sense," Tezuka retorted, gripping Fuji's hips and shifting in a heady rush of friction and hardness that had never failed to make Fuji stop talking. It was almost too euphoric that this had not changed.

Arms still pinned above his head and clasped together with irons, Fuji's enthusiastic squirming make up for his lack of leverage and his teeth were leaving marks that would reveal openly the ownership Tezuka had never be able to release himself from. That Tezuka's only thought was a hope for them to stay longer than he'd be able to keep Fuji this time, for whoever really held Fuji and that was really the point, was evidence enough that this was a horrible, horrible idea. He'd come to Germany to escape this, to be freed for this incredibly, amazing unattainability.

But Tezuka couldn’t stop himself anymore now than he could then.

As the only one with functioning hands, Tezuka took the responsibility of opening Fuji's pants and easing out his hard cock. He held it carefully, refamiliarizing himself with his feel in his hand, and Tezuka almost took it into his mouth, the taste and texture at the very edge of his memory, like the missing piece of a dream long awoken from. Instead, he pulled out his own cock and pressed the two slickly together in his fist, his mouth going to Fuji's, the taste and feel and want and need creeping out of the hidden depths of Tezuka's mind and clicking into finality until Tezuka was shaking and gripping and coming all over his hand, sheets, Fuji.

He collapsed, panting and sore in places he couldn’t touch, and resigned himself to a sort of inevitability that they'd probably been working up to since the last time. 

"We already tried this," Tezuka reminded them both from against Fuji's collarbone. "It didn't work."

"It really didn't," Fuji allowed, fondly tugging at the ends of Tezuka's hair. "But let's try it anyway."

Tezuka chose not to answer in favor of falling asleep with Fuji's fingers in his hair and Fuji's waist in his arms and Fuji's future linked back with his own. After all, Fuji already knew the answer.

 

By the time Tezuka remembered Fuji was supposed to be bound to the headboard, he was already too far gone to resist.


End file.
